“Hand there! come and set the stern light.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried I, hurrying to the place.
For the first hour or so after slipping our moorings off Havre the Kestrel had remained in perfect darkness. But now that we were beyond sight of the lights ashore there was no occasion for so dangerous a precaution. I unlashed the lantern and took it down to the galley for a light, and then returned with it to the helm.
As I did so I could not help turning it full on the face of the man at the tiller.
Sure enough it was Tim, grown into a man, with down on his chin, and the weather wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Every inch a sailor and a gentleman he looked as he stood there in his blue flannel suit and peaked cap; the same easy-going, gusty, reckless Tim I had fought with many a time on Fanad cliffs, loving him more for every blow I gave him. When I thought I had lost him, it seemed as if I had lost a part of myself. Now I had found him, I had found myself.
“Look alive, my lad,” said he.
Without a word I fixed the light in its place. I had never, I think, felt so shy and at a loss in my life.
At last I could stand it no longer.
“Tim, old man, is that really you?”
He staggered at the sound of my voice, just as I had staggered at the sound of his, and let go the helm.